I needed to be sober and fully present at each and every one of the meetings that were being set up for me today. They were popping up in my calendar at a disturbing rate, and when the ninth one rolled in while I was sipping that second beer at a brew pub and plotting my exit, I messaged my senior EA.
Me:If you schedule one more meeting for me today, send it along with a bullet to the head.
Velma:What calibre would you prefer?
And that was why I kept Velma around. We understood one another’s (dark) sense of humor, and more importantly, she got shit done.
The meeting notifications then started popping up for tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
Maybe I’d take that bullet after all.
When I told the guys I had to go, they didn’t complain. Johnny probably had his own shit to take care of, and Shane was probably just glad to get any face time with me at all right now. I was distracted most of the time and my phone wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and they definitely busted my balls about the sex tape, but they’d gone easier on me about it than I would’ve expected.
My friends actually seemed more concerned about the breakup, and how I was doing, which I definitely didn’t expect.
Maybe they’d matured since the last time we all hung out? What was that, like four years ago? At some concert Johnny played in Toronto.
“It’s just how things go,” I told them, kind of evading getting into it. “We were having problems anyway. It was for the best.”
All true. But I could tell, off the looks they gave me, it sounded cold. Even to two guys who weren’t known for their lengthy, heartfelt unions with women.
Maybe because the breakup only happened three days ago.
“I’m fine,” I assured them, when they exchanged a glance like maybe I was in denial, or shock or something, and it hadn’t really hit me yet.
It had. Like a locomotive. Along with all the rest of it. I was nowhere near denial on this. I was painfully aware of how badly my life had been upended.
“Well, we’re here for you, man,” Johnny told me.
“Yeah,” Shane said, as he tucked an unlit joint into the corner of his mouth. “You need to blow off work, responsibilities, your ex-fiancée… you know where to find me.”
“I do.”
As we said goodbye—and I made sure Shane picked up the bill—I made a point of shaking hands with Johnny. Mainly because he was pretty famous. Johnny O’Reilly, the pretty boy musician I hung with in high school, was now a bona fide rock star. He had security of his own. He hadfans. Our waitress actually had to switch to another section because she couldn’t seem to function in his presence and spilled a beer down Shane’s back.
The three of us had drawn more than a few looks in that pub, and if this ended up on the web (it would) I wanted it to be able to pass as a business meeting. I had my reputation to think of—as my mother had reminded me, ad nauseam, over the past three days.
And sure, Johnny O’s reputation wasn’t exactly pristine; he was a notorious bad boy, but in the celebrity sense. By comparison? Let’s just say that being seen with Shane Madrigal in public, these days, wasn’t doing anything for anyone’s reputation. My best friend’s whole persona had gone pretty dark, ever since the accident that stopped his hockey career in its tracks had sent him into kind of a tailspin.
He was still my best friend, though, and when he gave me a hug before I left, I hugged him back.
Outside, I slipped back into my car and Rolf rushed me off to a meeting on the other side of downtown, the first of many. It was a lunch meeting where I met with four women at once; women who ran a digital media agency owned by Valhalla.
The meeting went smoothly. None of the women even seemed to hate me off the bat, and if they knew about the scandal—of course they did—they pretended not to.
I listened to everything they said. I shook hands. When one of the partners stroked the side of her throat for the half-dozenth time while giving me a lingering look, I pretended not to notice.
Perfect gentleman.
I even remembered all their names and used them in conversation a few times.
All the while, I was hyperaware that we were in public, seated conspicuously at a big, round table in the front window of a waterfront restaurant in Coal Harbour. That the eyes of people were on me. Not always, but at any given time, I could be recognized anywhere I went. Media outlets or paparazzi could show up, as promised by my mother. I wouldn’t necessarily see them, but they’d see me. I never knew who I was going to run into, or who was going to stick a camera in my face.
This was just part of the deal when you were born into one of the wealthiest families in a country with not all that many billionaires, and now co-ran one of the largest, most powerful media conglomerates in that country.
It didn’t hurt that I was also fairly young, single and, according to every women’s magazine Velma subscribed to, a “good catch.” At least, Iwasa good catch, pre-sex-tape-scandal.
Now, who the fuck knew?
